


Means of Influence

by Lady_Spindle



Category: 91 Days (Anime)
Genre: Angst, Enemies to Lovers, Feelings, First Kiss, First Time, Flashbacks, M/M, Murder, On the Run, Post Series, Road Trips, car explosions, non explicit car sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-25
Updated: 2018-12-21
Packaged: 2019-08-29 02:29:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 10,644
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16735341
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lady_Spindle/pseuds/Lady_Spindle
Summary: Snippets from their second road trip: the past, the present, and maybe even the future.





	1. Part 1

**Author's Note:**

> I spent the summer working at a plastics factory 10 hrs a day so naturally all I did was think about fanfiction and subsequently write none of it down. Except one time I got home at 2 am and wrote most of this baby in a sleep deprived haze. I found it on my computer months later…it’s pretty generic but this fandom needs content so here it is.

His last wish, Nero thinks, is to see the ocean.  It is what has kept his hands steady on the wheel while the instrument of his destruction sits beside him, staring absently out the window through empty eyes.  He should have shot him days ago, Avilio should have killed him weeks ago, the play house at the latest.  But here they both stand – or sit, rather – in Cerotto’s stolen car, rolling steadily towards Florida and Avilio’s preferred end.

It takes a little under a week for Nero to cave.  He has every intention of treating Avilio as the life-ruining, family murdering menace that he is until they reach the beach.  But he can’t.  He’s been offering Avilio cigarettes since day one out of (what? Courtesy?), within a week he removes the binds from Avilio’s wrists, soon after he allows him to take shifts driving (it will get them to Florida faster, won’t it?).  Life-ruiner. Family Murderer, yet Nero can’t shake the impossible bond he has with Avilio, a transcending companionship with no apparent bounds.  Avilio’s presence comforts him as much as it nauseates him; reassures him as much as it angers him.  Nero doesn’t know how long he can take this incongruity in feeling, like an itch just out of reach, he feels like he’s burning up in his own skin. 

_The sooner we get to Florida, the better_ , he thinks.   He spares a glance at his silent companion.

_In a few days, he’ll be silent forever_.  Nero isn’t sure he’ll look much different dead than alive (has he really been alive, these last seven years?). 

But all the same…

He’s going to miss Avilio’s vicious mouth and sharp angles, his cunning and his wit.  The soft smiles he sometimes allowed when only Nero was around, when they shared a cigarette and watched the sunset, or poured over paperwork in the dead of night, or when Avilio offered to cheer him up when everyone in Lawless wanted his head. 

_Nero wants to take him by the shoulders and scream “how much of it was real?  Was it all a lie?  Everything you did and said, was it solely a trick to get me to trust you?”_

If he starts screaming now he might never stop.

They make camp in a grove of trees for the night.  Nero takes watch first and gazes at the stars, the moon, and the dancing embers as their fire dies.  He tries not to notice the slim figure of Avilio sleeping across from him, the elegant curve of his spine, the way he always seems to drown in his clothing.

If only he’d known this unassuming, brilliant, cold man would single handedly orchestrate the ruin of everyone he held dear.

_He recalls the night of Frate’s death (Avilio’s doing, of course), but Nero had played a sordid role in the affair.  He’d been willing to shoot his own brother, after all._

_Nero hid in his office – his father’s office, really – and proceeded to drink himself stupid.  Avilio had appeared, because he always did, to reassure Nero, offer his brotherhood to a man he barely knew.  Then he sat beside Nero while the other cried into a bottle._

_“I don’t want you to be my brother,” Nero said finally._

_Avilio had shrugged, unaffected by his rejection until Nero pulled him aside and kissed him._

_It must have been terrible, he reflects, he’d been crying for the better part of a half hour and drinking for longer.  Avilio remained frozen like a marble statue while he sloppily pressed kisses to his soft pink mouth.  In the moments where it seemed like he may have finally broken from his stupor enough to reciprocate, Nero jerked away, wiping off his mouth._

_“F-forget I did that,” he stammered, embarrassment hot on his face, “please don’t tell anyone – I’m not…I’m not like_ that _.”_

_“Like what?” Avilio had deadpanned, but his face spoke otherwise.  He always betrayed so little, yet now his eyes were wide, mouth slightly open as when Nero had asked him to join the family, as though pleasantly surprised._

_“You should go,” Nero couldn’t make eye contact with him. A cool hand on his cheek caused him to turn his head in Avilio’s direction._

_“And if I won’t?” He asked._

_“Then you – I–” Nero stammered helplessly as Avilio drew close, crawling onto his lap until he straddled his hips.  His hands were cool, cupping Nero’s chin, eyes locked onto his._

_“This is what you want?” Nero asked, voice cracked and wavering._

_Avilio answered by closing the gap between them and slotting his lips against Nero’s.  The angle is better than before, but Avilio’s kisses scream inexperience (but Nero was an emotional drunken mess and in no position to critique)._

_This was about comfort, about losing himself in Avilio’s rare affection for the time being._

_Nero eventually ducked his head down and pressed his face into the crook of Avilio’s neck and shoulder, squeezing him tight.  Avilio moved his hands from where they rested at Nero’s jaw to card them through his hair._

_“You really should go,” Nero repeated, though it was the last thing he wanted, “I’m the don now…more people are watching me…I can’t afford to-“_

_Avilio pressed a light kiss to his lips to curtail his rambling. He was already putting space between them, picking up his hat and coat, and slipping out of the room quietly as he had come.  He had glanced over his shoulder at Nero before closing the door, and he had felt a horrible swell of gratitude at the gesture._

_He liked to believe that, for this instance alone, Avilio’s actions were genuine, a momentary slip In composure before he carefully cataloged his actions and honed them into a weapon just as he did with every other attribute of his false personhood.  But he’d seen the way Avilio can manipulate and bend people to his will, without them even realizing, and knows it not to be true._

* * *

 

Nero should have shot him in the car back in Lawless (perhaps in the alleyway outside the car, for Cerotto’s sake).  Nero should not have rescued him from the Galassias.  Most importantly, Nero should not be taking him across the country to Florida to fulfill his last wish.

Either way, Angelo is glad he will get to see the ocean. 

Nero is being kind to him, treating him as if they were somehow still comrades in arms, close friends on a roadtrip. The other man is clearly racked with grief.  But Angelo is impressed with how Nero is able to piece himself back together so quickly after losing so much, when he himself had simply withered into a husk of a human being in the aftermath of his own tragedy.  He wonders what it might be like to be filled with so much strength and life and emotion. 

Angelo steals a glance at Nero as he drives, a furrowed knot of tension has taken up permanent residence on his brow, a tension spreading from his set jaw to his white knuckles gripping the steering wheel.  Being Nero is torture.

Hours pass when finally Nero breaks the silence:

“What should I call you?”

Angelo starts but does not move out of his position facing the window, “whatever you want, I don’t care.”

“Angelo?”

This time the younger man’s head whips around; he makes long, dangerous eye contact with Nero until he has to swerve a bit to right himself on the road.  Nero begins tapping his index finger on the steering wheel, agitated.

“Just wanted to see how it felt,” he mutters. He pauses a beat, “but it doesn’t really matter, does it? Look at my options: Angelo the murderer or Avilio the fake,” Nero says bitterly, tapping increasing its tempo.

Angelo resumes staring listlessly out the window; it’s easier than watching Nero try to hold himself together.

By the time the sun sets, Nero can barely keep his eyes open and the car within the bounds of the road.  Angelo offers to take over and drive through the night, but Nero stubbornly refuses.  They make camp in the hollow shell of a collapsed barn, sitting across from one another, separated by a camp fire.  Nero promises that in the morning they’ll find a diner and have some “real food” as opposed to the selection of canned beans and fruits they have been subsisting off of.

“You must be Angelo,” Nero declares once he has finished his canned beans. He lights a cigarette.

Angelo watches Nero intently, eyes glinting in the firelight as though begging for an explanation.

“Avilio was my brother, my closest friend.  I trusted him with my life,” he takes a long drag, “as far as I’m concerned Avilio died at the playhouse, along with everyone else I loved.”

Angelo watches him stonily, unmoving like a marble statue.  Nero has every right to be angry, and it shouldn’t mean anything to him. (but his words hurt, how they ache like an old, festering wound).

“Whatever helps you sleep at night,” he counters flatly.  Neither of them sleep at night, not well, that is.  The exhaustion has become a feature of their everyday faces.  There’s too much blood, too many corpses between them for it to be any other way. Angelo lays down his coat over a pile of mostly dry straw – it is a vast improvement from sleeping on dirt – and turns his back to the fire and Nero.  Half of him wishes Nero would just shoot his exposed back (like he should have seven years ago-), and the other rests easier knowing he has exposed his back to someone whom he trusts (trusted).

The Galassias family still trails them, even deep into the southern reaches of the country.  When Strega captured him, he’d been given straightforward instructions: lure Nero out of Lawless and kill him.  Doing so would assure Angelo a place in the new don’s ranks.  Strega, it seemed, had already taken a liking to him.

Nero knows they are being trailed, and he’s smart enough to escape.  Angelo knows he will not survive their visit to the beach.  Nero will kill him there, and Angelo is grateful it will be from him.

_In rare isolated moments After Frate’s death, they find ways to draw close to one another, a brush of a hand, a stolen kiss.  They can afford nothing more that this._

_“I’ve wanted to kiss you since during the roadtrip when we fought Goliath,” he admitted on one occasion with a rueful smile._

_It is times like this, Angelo wishes, he was really just Avilio Bruno, a street-urchin-turned –pick-pocket-turned-gangster.  Avilio had wanted to kiss Nero since the road trip.  He could have stayed with the Vanetti family and fallen in love with Nero more every day rather than orchestrate his demise._

_But underneath it all is Angelo Lagusa, who knows Avilio is a façade to infiltrate the Vanettis, who has the corpses of his family hanging over him every day, begging for vengeance, asking him why he survived when they all had to perish._

_Then one day he added another corpse to the pile: Corteo._

_In time, the ghosts of his family have faded into a distant memory, but Corteo’s ghost is fresh and real.  He sees him in everything: the coffee he drinks in the morning (made instead by Tigre), the marketplace where he shops for pineapple (this time he shops alone), in every corner of the cursed Vanetti mansion where Vincent is bleeding and dying and Angelo just can’t wait until he can watch it all burn..._

_At night is the worst, Angelo saw Corteo wherever he looked, by the door, sitting under the window reading, even behind his closed eyes. Corteo was not malevolent in his visions; it was perhaps his greatest fault that he never once resented Angelo._

_He cannot sleep this way.  Angelo found himself wandering in the direction of Nero’s room before he could convince himself otherwise.  He stood at the foot of Nero’s bed, watching him sleep soundly, bare back and shoulders painted silver by streaks of moonlight._

_“Nero?” He asked, half hoping he won’t respond._

_But he does._

_Bleary-eyed, Nero propped himself up on one elbow and asked, “Avilio are you alright?”_

_He shook his head, he wasn’t there to talk, he just needed to escape._

_Nero was confused, but patted the spot beside him, a clear invitation.  Angelo curled up against his back, and Nero reached over and captured one of Angelo’s hands, lacing their fingers together.  He pressed Angelo’s open palm against his chest, over his heart. With his free hand, Angelo pulled the blankets back up over them both and tried to relax. The thrum of Nero’s heart reverberated through his hollow body like a shout echoing through the deserted vaults of a cathedral, momentarily filling the space inside._

_He peered over the smooth slope of Nero’s shoulder to the window, expecting to see Corteo, perhaps furious, that he would seek comfort from the enemy.  Instead all he saw were pale swaying curtains, bathed in moonlight. Angelo nuzzled his cheek against the bare expanse of Nero’s back and found himself lulled easily to sleep._

_When he’s with Nero, he does not see Corteo.  As in life, so it was in death._  

* * *

 

Nero kills the engine once they reach the ocean side, but it takes several minutes more for him to undo the white-knuckle grip he has on the steering wheel. He keeps his eyes trained on the horizon before speaking.

“You don’t need a reason to live, you just live.”

And Angelo, would love to believe this, but perhaps he’s too much like his father, because all he can think of are his words “a reason to live gives a man power”.  Angelo knows what it is like to be powerless, he’s been powerless for so long and he’s _tired,_ so very tired…

He doesn’t respond to Nero and gets out of the car.  Nero follows. 

They walk on the beach together.  It is, by all accounts, a perfect day.  Were it not for the heaviness hanging over the duo. Angelo feels lighter with each step: the ocean is just as beautiful as it was in paintings, and this time, Nero won’t miss. Beside him, he has already stopped walking as Angelo forges ahead.  He will make this easy on Nero: he won’t turn around.  Eventually, one of the steps he takes will be his last. 

As Nero lines up a shot, he wishes with this one bullet he could erase the pain caused to him over the past three months. It is meaningless, what is left of Angelo to kill?  What is left of himself? Though part of him rages, killing Angelo may amount to next to nothing, but he will take what he can get.

One bullet, seven years ago, could have saved him this pain, could have prevented the fall of everyone he held dear.

Would it have?

The Galassias’ would still have tightened their noose around Lawless, destroying the Vanetti’s slowly or perhaps in violent confrontation.

And in this scenario had Nero survived, he would be completely alone.

In Angelo he has a kindred spirit; this man brought him low to cause him to suffer equally, not to create a person who could understand him completely. And yet…here Nero stands.

Angelo jumps when he hears the gun fire after so many minutes of soothing ocean waves, he expects pain between his shoulder blades, a bloom of red against the white cloth of his shirt.  Instead he sees a shallow divot across the surface of the sand where a bullet might have skimmed before dredging deep into the shore.

In what feels like less than a heartbeat, Nero’s arms wrap around his shoulders from behind, pressing close against the length of his body.  The tide creeps up, dancing foam skirting their polished shoes.

“Don’t turn around,” Nero orders, voice muffled.

Angelo is frozen, trapped between confusion, relief and Nero’s arms.

He exhales heavily, “I…need some time to think.” Angelo’s shoulders tense when he presses his forehead against the thin material of his shirt.  “For better or worse I can’t kill you…even if that’s what you want…even if it’s what I want.” The young man remains motionless.

“St. Petersburg, Florida is a day and a half drive south along the coast,” Nero continues, “I can’t stay near you right now….but that’s where I’ll be…if you…if you want our paths to cross again.”

“Will you kill me then?” Angelo asks, speaking finally.

Nero sighs, “I don’t know.  I need time to think.”

“The Galassias want me to kill you,” Angelo admits, dispassionate as always.

The arms around his shoulders tighten a fraction but he continues, “They said to lure you out of Lawless.”

“That’s why they have been following us this whole time?”

“Mmm, I’ve lured you a bit farther than they expected,” he muses.

“Then…are you?” Nero tenses behind him.

It’s Angelo’s turn to sigh, long enough that Nero wonders if he might exhale all the air in his body, crumple up, and blow away into the sea.

“I don’t want to.” He says it so matter-of-fact, as if killing or not killing is still simple and not mired under plots and grudges and deceit.

They stand in silence for long minutes as the tide pulls in further, waves curling over the tops of their shoes, sloshing at their ankles.  The steady push and pull of the water slowly erases their footprints, subsumed by the sea.

“Friendship is a more powerful tool than a knife,” Nero says finally, distantly, breath warm against Angelo’s neck, “That’s what my father used to say.”

“How ironic you would believe those words, seeing as they came from mine,” Angelo says coldly. He is impassable as a statue.

“They were close friends,” Nero pauses a beat, sounding pained, “do you believe them?”

Angelo shrugs awkwardly under the weight of Nero’s embrace

“Is this our legacy?” Nero asks bitterly, “to be just like our fathers? Carving open our friends when they are no longer convenient to keep?”

“You haven’t managed to kill me yet,” Angelo murmurs.

“Do you…do you think we’re meant to be better than them?” It feels like he’s talking mostly to himself.

“Are we?” Angelo’s voice breaks into something raw and honest.

For a moment, his arms tense around Angelo’s shoulders.  He wonders if Nero has made up his mind, if he will simply strangle him, snap his neck or throw him down into the rising tide.  Angelo would not stop him.

Nero has been forged in violence, but underneath it all is tenderness, so much empathy misplaced in the frame of what should have been a hardened killer.  Barbero had been right to accuse him of being unable to kill Angelo – whether it be out of some twisted sense of self-punishment, the frayed tries of familial bonds, or even an incoherent notion of _love-_

When the arms around Angelo’s shoulders slide away and he has half a mind to grab them back, pull Nero against him never to let go.  Without Nero there he is reminded how hollow he has become. Maybe, if Angelo holds fast, crushes Nero impossibly close to his withering form, some of his will to live might spill over into him. 

Instead he remains motionless as first the pressure of bodily contact fades, then the warmth.  Seawater sloshes around his ankles, soaking up his pant legs.

“One week, St. Petersburg, Florida,” Nero repeats.

Distantly, as if a dream, the car engine starts up, sputters, rights itself, and gradually fades away.


	2. Part 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The final showdown with the Galassias.

“The reach of the king is long,” is what Strega first says to Angelo upon catching up with him.  It’s a telling statement as to where Strega is in his journey to become the next don of the Galasssias: right now he is invincible.

Angelo had waited on the beach for hours, long after the sound of Nero’s car dissipated into the lulling crash of waves.  The tide had crept up around his ankles where he crouched in the sand, arms wrapped around himself, trying to hold that brittle husk he called himself together. It’s harder without Nero.  Nero, whose existence had been so central to Angelo’s, who now left behind a void of space in his absence. 

It was only a matter of time before the Galassias caught up with him.  When the tide grew too high, Angelo had relocated to the nearest seaside town, found a bar, and waited.

Now, surrounded by Strega and his men, Angelo wonders if he shouldn’t have let the tide take him asunder.

They relocate him to an abandoned building; Angelo complies.  Here, he is promptly tied down to a chair while Strega stalks back and forth in front of him.

“I gave you simple instructions,” he shakes his head, “what part of ‘lure Nero out of Lawless and kill him’…did you fail to understand?”

It is a dangerous question.  Angelo proceeded in a detached voice, “he figured me out.  I planned to shoot him on the beach earlier today, but he pulled a gun on me and was able to escape.”  It’s a logical response, but a sorely inadequate excuse.

“I see,” Strega’s expression twists.  In a smooth motion, he approaches Angelo’s bound figure and hits him across the face with a solid right cross. His vision blurs over instantly, head spinning.

Strega grabs a handful of the front of Angelo’s shirt and pulls him upward, balancing the chair precariously on its two back legs. Angelo lets his head hang but keeps silent.  No sense in giving Strega any satisfaction for hurting him.

“Where is Nero?!”

The city name is vivid electric in Angelo’s mind, but Strega will have to pull that information from his cold dead lips.

“I don’t know,” he deadpans.

The grip on his collar subsides and the chair clatters onto all fours again. “So you’ve failed me,” Strega states, “do you remember what the consequences where should you fail me?” 

Somewhere far off, Angelo knows, but his head is still hazy from the blow.

 “Perhaps you need a reminder.” He motions to his lackeys.  Angelo braces himself.  Strega can’t afford to kill him, so this is going to hurt like Hell.

 

An indeterminate amount of time later, Angelo jolts awake.  He’s still strapped to the chair but now just about everything aches dully.  He’s afraid to see his reflection, knowing that it will be more bruise than face.  As his awareness returns in stages, he notices Strega watching him, gaze predatory.  He approaches once again.

“There are means of influence other than violence,” Strega drawls, drawing Angelo’s chin up so he’s forced to meet his eye.  Strega’s eyes narrow, “but violence is what you understand best.”  He kicks out the legs of the chair Angelo is tied to; he hits the ground hard, but it is a small ache compared to the overall remnants of the beating.  Strega’s words feel like a strange butchering of his father’s: “friendship is a more reliable tool than a knife.”

He’d like a knife now, if only to slice Strega open with it.  But doing so wouldn’t solve anything, there would always be more Gallasiaas.  In order to be rid of them, he needed something better than a knife.

Angelo is barely aware of two of Strega’s lackeys cutting him free of his binds and hauling him to his feet.  One has the decency to toss a bucket of cold water over his head, soothing his battered face and knocking some awareness back into his senses.  He feels the cool press of a gun barrel against his forehead and wonders if Strega will just shoot him after all.

“One week Bruno, no games, I want Nero Vanetti dead at my feet,” he removes the barrel from Angelo’s forehead and presses it to his chest.  He takes the gun.

“Do this,” Strega crosses his arms, “and I will consider letting you live.  Decide to not follow through…well…” he chuckles darkly, “you’d be better off putting a bullet in your own brain than to find out what I’d do to you if you fail me again.”

Angelo lets his gaze slide up to meet Strega’s, the corner of his lip twitches into something like a smile.

* * *

 

His first task is to remove some of the evidence of Strega’s beating.  His clothes cover most of the bruises (and he’s lucky, he supposes, that it’s only bruises. He hasn’t yet outlived his usefulness, he just needed a reminder that he is ultimately a low-down-former-Vanetti-dog, trying to prove a dangerous new don otherwise).  The marks on his face will be harder to mask; he has already begun the process of splashing cold water on his skin every chance he gets but finding ice or cool amenities in Florida is predictably difficult.  If he can at least reduce the swelling of one black eye enough that it will stay open, and get the bright purple and red blooms across his jaw and cheeks to fade to a less garish green-yellow before he finds Nero, he will be immensely pleased.

It feels strange to think, as he hitchhikes down the coast, that the decision to rejoin Nero came almost subconsciously, though soured by the thought that if he didn’t personally hunt down Nero, the Galassias would just find someone else to do it. He is equally confused by the need to conceal his injuries from Nero, as if to dampen the intensity of the pain he received defending him (despite everything, Nero would fly into a rage knowing he had been hurt on his behalf, and Angelo was not quite ready to admit to Nero that he would go to such great lengths to protect him)

But he had more important things to ponder than his reunion with Nero, despite how he felt lighter with each step closer to St. Petersburg.  Nero could still decide to kill him, after all. 

Whatever came to pass, Angelo was determined to take the Galassias out of the equation.  He and Nero would have their reunion, come what may, but they would settle things on their own time, on their own terms.

A kindly trucker picks up Angelo and agrees to take him to the next port town, still forty miles out from St. Petersburg.  As he watches the mile markers slide by, a plan formulates to rid them of the shadow of the Galassias, for good.

Disappointed, but not surprised, Angelo finds Nero in the seediest speakeasy in St. Petersburg, a flapper hanging off each arm.  The girls look bored, initially drawn to Nero by his good looks they now appear rather repulsed by the drunken state Nero has lowered himself to. He stumbles, dragging himself and his entourage back to the bar for another round.  Angelo does himself the favor of downing his own glass of weak liquor before approaching Nero.

“Oy, you,” he calls out, making eye contact with Nero.

Eyes unfocused, it takes him a moment to realize who spoke to him.

“Avilioo!” He slurs, earning disdainful looks from all three present, “when did you get heere??”

“Do you know him?” One of the flappers hisses, desperate for an out.

“Unfortunately,” Angelo deadpans, “I’m here to collect him.”

“Take him,” the other flapper half shoves half manhandles Nero into Angelo.

He swipes the wallet off of the older man and slides them both a couple of bills for their trouble.  Nero is nearly out of cash, but it doesn’t matter because Angelo has already pilfered a half dozen wallets from the seedy establishment.

“Avilio? Did you meet my friends?” Nero babbles into his ear, draped heavily over Angelo’s shoulders.

“They’re not your friends.  You’re a mess, and you _need_ to stand _up_ ,” to punctuate, Angelo shoves Nero back to his feet.

He sways uncertainly and settles with slinging an arm over Angelo’s shoulders to steady himself. 

It’s about as good as it’s going to get, so Angelo proceeds to drag him outside and to the dingy motel he’s bought a room for the evening.

The concierge raises a skeptical brow upon seeing Angelo try to drag Nero inside.

“And who might this be?” He demands.

Fortunately, Angelo has already constructed an alibi. “My brother in law doesn’t know how to behave.”

The concierge nods knowingly, “he marry your sister or you his?”

“His sister,” Angelo confirms.

“Sure hope she’s worth it,” he casts a disappointed glare at Nero.

“Sometimes,” Angelo fixes Nero with a glare, “I question it.”

A frustrating trip up three flights of stairs later, Angelo dumps Nero onto the single bed in the room. He rolls onto his back and lies very still for a minute, probably dizzy and disoriented.

He exhales long and low, “I think I overdid it a bit.”

Angelo tosses his coat onto the plush chair in the corner, what would probably become his bed for the evening.

“Your sense of perception is unparalleled,” he deadpans, his need to lash out at anything Nero says stemming from his own uncertainty.  Sure, he’d found Nero as planned, but he’d also hoped Nero wouldn’t be a total mess. Angelo has a vague semblance of a plan to rid them of the Galassias, but he needs Nero to pull himself together.  With vicious clarity, Angelo realizes just how much he relies on Nero being at ease and in control. He might be the cleverer planner, but Nero’s reassurance is just as crucial to success.

Behind him, Nero shifts around to prop himself up on one elbow, watching Angelo carefully.

“You’re mad at me,” he says softly, and it’s not even a fair statement because, why _wouldn’t_ Angelo be angry with Nero for a whole host of things.  Instead he chooses to sound horribly upset that Angelo is angry with him over being too drunk, as though Angelo has never had to deal with his inebriated self.  His voice pleads forgiveness.

Angelo caves too easily, it’s a habit he’s gotten into. “I’m not…angry at you.” He takes a seat on the far edge of the bed, across from Nero.

“What happened?” Nero reaches a hand out and brushes Angelo’s cheek where a particularly stubborn bruise remained.

He flinches away from the contact, turning slightly, “it’s nothing.” When he glances back at Nero, he’s sitting up, eyes solemn.

“I know why you’re here,” he murmurs, “the Galassias sent you to finish the job.”

Angelo’s eyes widen, brow furrowed.

“It’s ok,” Nero sounds brittle, “I’m at peace with it.  Just…before you do,” he leans close, one hand coming up to card through Angelo’s hair, thumb tracing his jaw, “will you spend tonight with me?”

Angelo freezes, heart in his throat. Nero’s other hand ghosts over his knee, sliding up to rest high on his thigh, pressing into his skin through the thin material of his slacks.

“Will you give that to me?” Nero’s face is barely inches away from his, eyes searching earnestly, “you don’t have to mean it.  Then I can die happy.”

He tilts his head, eyes fluttering shut, thumb caressing the inside of Angelo’s thigh.  The rush of heat the younger man feels is finally enough to snap him out of his wide-eyed stupor. 

Angelo puts his hands on Nero’s shoulders, forcibly shoving him away at arm’s length.

“I’m not here to kill you,” he gasps, his heart beats erratically in his chest, “I have…a plan.” The more he talks the more control over the situation he gains back, “we’re going to escape the Galassias for good. But in order to do that…” he draws a steadying breath, “I need you to be sober for this,”

Angelo keeps his hands planted firmly on Nero’s shoulders, barring him from coming any closer.

Nero nods and gently shoves his hands away, “Ok…ok…”  He pauses thoughtfully, “was it all a lie? Everything between you and me was it just…” He leans forward, as though he might kiss Angelo, but the younger man turns his head away and Nero halts his motion. 

Angelo pushes Nero back again, he doesn’t answer but his actions are explanation enough. Nero sinks down on top of the covers with a defeated sigh, soon after he begins snoring, deeply asleep.

Returning to the chair, Angelo curls into himself, pulse racing.  Every place Nero’s hands had been still burn like a brand.  Angelo had taken advantage of Nero’s interest in him for the sake of getting close to Nero.  It had been like a game to them, a blooming forbidden romance of sort. Angelo knew well of his own proclivities but would never had guessed Nero was the same.  He’d seen it before, especially with the rich elite, always assuming that whatever happened between him and Nero meant nothing.  Eventually Nero would have grown out of his interest in Angelo and moved on, married a nice woman and had a family, just as expected.

But after everything…Nero still _wanted_ him.  He presses his face into his drawn up knees.  This is the last thing he needs right now, he’s already over extended, a half-baked plan in unfamiliar territory with a ruthless gang on their tail.

At the same time, he wants to be wanted.  It’s an unfamiliar feeling but it fills his hollow chest with a painful, wonderful fire.  And he knows that with Nero, it’s not just for sex.  For all of his violent upbringing the man still has a romantic heart, if he wants Angelo it’s because he wants all of him in some unattainable, rose-colored future.

_Don’t think about it_ , he struggles internally, _don’t think about how the only person alive who cares about you is the one whose entire life you destroyed.  Focus on the plan._

Eventually, running through details tires his brain enough for him to sleep.

* * *

 

In the morning, Angelo wakes up first, Nero still passed out.  With any luck, he’ll sleep off a hangover.  Peeking out the window, Angelo takes note of a diner across the way, advertising a hearty American breakfast until eleven.  It’s a popular place, he notes the pattern of cars coming in and out, mostly middle class, cars much like the one that he and Nero stole from Cerotto weeks ago.

Nero rouses behind him, groaning.

“Headache?” Angelo asks.

“Shut up,” Nero grumbles, kneading his temples.

Pulling the curtain shut again, Angelo brings Nero a glass of water from the bathroom tap.

“There’s a diner across the street,” he supplies, refilling the cup for Nero once he’d downed the contents.

“You gonna buy me breakfast?” Nero asks.

“No, you’re paying,” Angelo scoffs, “if it were my choice I’d go steal two cans of pineapple from the nearest corner store and that would be breakfast.”

Nero makes a disgruntled sound, “I might have spent all my money last night.”

Angelo rolls his eyes and tosses one of his pilfered wallets at Nero.

“Where’d you get this?” He stammers.

“The speakeasy.  No one’s going to file a report for a wallet that went missing at an illegal gathering,” he shrugs.

“Best be going then,” Nero rolls to his feet as Angelo collects his coat. 

They climb out the fire escape and wander across the street to the diner. Both order pancakes, mirroring their last road trip.  They aren’t as good as the ones from Jinny’s Diner, but Angelo digs in all the same.  It’s the first hot meal he’s had in days, and it might be one of his last.

“So…are you going to clue me in on your little plan?” Nero asks, pouring a reasonable amount of syrup onto his own plate before sliding the rest over to Angelo.

“Soon,” he mumbles, mouth full of pancake.  They are already saturated in syrup but he pours the rest of Nero’s on top all the same.

 Nero frowns at him, though part of his disgruntled expression is from the hangover, “I’m gonna take a piss.”

He stands and walks back towards the public restroom. Another patron waits in line for the single restroom.  The moment he disappears inside, Angelo pays the waitress for the meals and while she brings back the change Angelo acquires the unsuspecting patron’s car keys.

When Nero returns, they walk back outside.

“Now what?” the older man asks, stretching his arms above his head.

“Do you remember where you put your car?” Angelo asks, halting by the side of the street to light up a cigarette.

“It would be a few blocks away, by the, y’know…speakeasy,” Nero fidgets until Angelo offers him a cigarette as well.

“The Galassias almost certainly know we’re here.  They probably tailed me,” Angelo takes a long drag, “we should limit our time seen in public together. Wait in the alley between the diner and the next building, I’ll drive by and pick you up.”

“Drive?” Nero scoffs, “you don’t know where the car is.”

“But I know where that car is,” he motions to the one parked across the street, dangling the pilfered keys in front of Nero’s face.

Unruffled by Angelo’s casual thievery, Nero grumbles, “I don’t see why we need two vehicles.” He starts walking to the alleyway nonetheless.

“I’ll explain on the way,” Angelo replies briskly and walks to the car.

Once Nero is safely riding shotgun, he asks, “if the Galassias know we’re here, what is the point of switching vehicles?”

“We need two cars,” Angelo insists, “you’ll just need to decide which one you like better.”

Nero slams his fist on the dashboard, “are you gonna tell me your plan or keep me in the dark until the Galassias kill us both?”

“It’s…I’m working on it.  The plan…it’s only about half of a plan right now,” Angelo clenches his hands tighter around the steering wheel.  He’s so out of his depth, before infiltrating the Vanetti family he’d had time to flesh out his plan, make sure there weren’t loose ends.

“If you keep me in the dark I can’t help you,” Nero sighs.

Angelo relaxes a fraction upon hearing this, “once we get to the other car, I’ll tell you everything I’ve got.  You’re…you’re not going to like it.”

Nero shrugs, “I trusted your judgement once.  I can probably find it in me to do it again.”

They ride in silence.

“Why not kill me?” Nero stares out the window, “you’d easily rise in the ranks of the Galassias, you could live comfortably.”

“I’m not interested in becoming someone else’s attack dog,” he growls.

Nero’s head whips around, face twisting with emotion, “you, no, you were never…you were like family.”

Angelo brakes the car to a halt at an intersection, “ _was_ like family.  I suppose it doesn’t matter now.” He turns his gaze to Nero, full of challenge.

Nero breaks contact first, sadness in his eyes, “no I suppose it doesn’t.”

They arrive at Nero’s car and Angelo kills the engine.

He leans against the side of the car and lights another cigarette.  His nerves are really getting to him.

Nero mirrors his posture and crosses his arms.

“We’re going to fake our deaths,” Angelo puffs out a cloud of smoke.

The older man stares at him, mouth agape, “alright.  You never cease to surprise me.”

He snatches Angelo’s cigarette and takes a drag.

“So pick your favorite car.  The other one is getting blown up.”

Nero makes a sound of surprise and hands Angelo back his cigarette.  Sharing was a familiar action, and it was becoming painfully clear how they both clung to a semblance of familiarity in this uncertain time.

“So we blow up a car?” Nero asks, “how do we make it look like we died?”

Angelo exhales, “that’s what you’re not going to like.  We’re going to have to kill two people and use them as stand ins.  They’ll be burned beyond recognition, Strega will have no reason to think it’s not us.”

“How do we make it so he doesn’t suspect?” Nero takes Angelo’s cigarette again, drumming his free hand agitatedly against the side of the car.

He rubs his temples, “That’s where it gets messy.  Strega or his goons have to see the explosion.  I’m going to send word to him for a meeting tomorrow night outside of town.  Tomorrow, we’ll rig the car to explode.”

“For the rest of today,” he presses a wallet to Nero’s chest, “I need you to buy five or so gas cans of fuel, space out which gas station you use.  We need to make sure the car is burned to a crisp.”

Nero takes the leather billfold nodding, “you?”

“I…” he wrings his hands out, “will send word to Strega and then…we should reconvene at sundown,” he looks at Nero ruefully.

“To nab our doubles,” he affirms, forehead drawn.

“If I’m not back by sundown…assume the worst and run as far as you can. There are extra wallets in the glove compartment and you’ll have plenty of fuel,” Angelo worrys his lower lip.

“I won’t go anywhere without you,” Nero says quietly, “a week ago I might have, but you came back to me and… In any case. The only way we win this is together.  After that…we’ll figure out the rest.”

Angelo nods, “see you at sundown.”

* * *

 

 The afternoon goes…exceptionally well. 

Angelo is able to send his message through the same shady establishment he’d dragged Nero out of less than twenty-four hours ago. He scouted an area outside of town in the middle of an abandoned field. He and Nero will be able to rig the car there and hide their getaway vehicle, then all they can do is watch and hope the blast works. 

His message to Strega was simple: come to the field at sundown, Angelo would be in a car with Nero, alive, and then he’d execute Nero for Strega right there. 

Head down, he hurries back to the lot where their cars are residing.

“Hey you, come here often?” someone calls from the shadows of an alleyway.

Angelo whips around, he has no gun but he’s acquired a knife. He halts his motions when he sees the caller is not some street corner creep and is just Nero, grinning at him.

“What’s with the scary face?  Did you think I was one of Strega’s?” He asks, falling into stride with Angelo.

“Or some back alley pervert,” he supplies, irritated.

“Sorry, didn’t mean to get you so ruffled,” Nero mutters. “Getting the gas cans went fine, there are six of them in the back of my less favorite car.”

They fall silent, knowing well that the unsavory part of the day is still ahead of them. The initial plan is to find a couple of beggars, people no one will miss.  A couple blocks through the slums of St. Petersburg cause Angelo to nudge Nero, amicably, as though they are good friends.

“We’re being followed,” he kicks a piece of trash across the ground.

Nero hums in agreement, “two of Strega’s thugs by the looks of it.”

Angelo takes a sharp turn down an alleyway, “what a coincidence.  We need two bodies.”

He nods at Nero who disappears farther down the alleyway.  Angelo waits for the thugs to round the corner.  This could get ugly.

One grabs him and slams him against the nearest building wall.  He wheezes, winded.  The thugs are instantly recognizable as the two Strega let beat the shit out of him days before.

“When Strega asked us to beat the disloyalty out of you, looks like we didn’t do a good enough job,” the first sneers.

“What were you thinking, walking with Nero?  You had every chance to kill the bastard,” the second snaps.

Angelo coughs, regaining his voice, “he’s good, he suspects me. Disappeared before I could kill him.”

The first thug presses him uncomfortably against the uneven brick of the building, “these flimsy excuses are starting to piss me off.  Strega suspected you might be a traitor.” He pulls a knife and presses the blade against Angelo’s cheek, not hard enough to break the skin.

“You can’t beat the disloyalty out of someone who was never one of us,” the second thug growls.

“That’s true, but carving up this pretty face is gonna make my day,” he jolts when the click of a safety release echoes through the alleyway.

Nero stands behind the second thug, revolver to his head, “put one scratch on my friend and I’ll blow this one's brains out,” his voice is low and deadly.

The thug menacing Angelo scoffs, “you wouldn’t fire a gun, it’s the slums but police will still show up.”

“You’re right,” Nero sighs before bringing the handle of the pistol down hard on the back of the second thug’s neck.  He yelps and falls to his knees.

The first thug turns instinctively, giving Angleo just enough time to draw his own knife and drive it deep into his throat.  Angelo wrestles him to the ground, keeping the blade firmly lodged.  He tries to scream, but only a gurgling sound escapes his lips, blood running out of the corners. Grunting with effort, Angelo pins his arms with his knees, keeping the knife steady until the thug finally stops struggling. The second, still reeling from Nero’s blow, whimpers, curled up on the ground with Nero’s pistol still trained on him. Angelo stands, withdrawing the knife and collecting the small curved blade the first thug had brandished. 

“Don’t kill me,” the man cries.

Angelo and Nero exchange looks.  It is miserable work.  Nero hands Angelo the gun and gets on his knees behind the man.  He cinches his arms around his neck and draws them tight. Angelo keeps the revolver trained on the man so he doesn’t attempt to escape and locks eyes with Nero through the whole ordeal. 

Nero stands a minute later, dusting himself off.

“Two corpses,” he says numbly.

Angelo presses the revolver into Nero’s chest, “it was them or us.”

He inspects the first thug, who leaves a giant bloody stain in the dirt ground.

“What a mess,” he jumps when Nero places a hand on his shoulder, turning Angelo slightly.

“You have blood on your face,” he dabs at Angelo’s cheek with a handkerchief where some of the arterial spray must have hit. His hands are doubtless also covered in blood but he doesn’t have time to think about it now.

They begin the arduous task of dragging the bodies the handful of blocks between the back alley and the lot with the cars.  Both are stashed in the trunk of the car filled with extra fuel. 

Angelo spends an obscene amount of time washing his hands and arms, under his fingernails, until all traces of the repulsive man’s blood is gone.  It’s not the first time either have killed in cold blood, but for Nero at least, it appears doing so still weighs heavily on him. 

“Take the back seat,” he offers, “you let me sleep in the bed last night.”

Angelo shakes his head, “you rest.  I don’t anticipating doing much sleeping.”

Nero smiles ruefully at him, “neither do I.”

He’s not about to argue over which crummy seat in a car they’ll be sleeping in, so Angelo clambers into the front seat, leaving Nero to release a long sigh before situating himself across the back seat.

“There’s plenty of room back here,” Nero shifts around, “room for two, if you’d like.”

The suggestion excites and repulses Angelo in equal measure.

“If this is about what you asked of me last night, my answer is still no,” he growls, turning away.

“I was very drunk…but I remember enough.  I didn’t mean to push myself on you,” he stares up at the ceiling.

“You’re not the first man to make a move on me,” Angelo admits. _Though he is the first to be sincere about it._ He knows what he looks like, delicate, pretty features, almost feminine. It draws the unwanted attention of plenty of men. 

Nero seems to think for a few long moments, “Angelo I don’t want anything from you that you wouldn’t give willingly.”

“That’s not entirely true,” he insists.

“I wouldn’t take more from you than you would willingly give,” he rephrases. “Not sure it matters anymore, we might both die tomorrow.”

Angelo feels himself sink deeper into the front seat, “yeah.”

“Though for what it’s worth, I’m glad I got to spend the past couple days with you,” it had almost felt like old times, before everything became messy and complicated.

In a few minutes, his breathing quiets and Angelo is almost certain he is asleep.  He has half a mind to crawl in the back with Nero.  It’s not that they’ve never shared a bed, he’s curious to see how it might feel to be wanted without a barrier of lies to separate them. 

He doesn’t move from his seat and instead waits much too long for sleep to encompass him.

* * *

 

“Once I rig the fuel line, do not open this door,” Angelo emphasizes.

“Unless I want to blow us both up, yes, you’ve told me,” Nero crosses his arms though he’s smirking underneath.

Angelo adjusts the corpse in the driver’s seat, lip curled in disgust. He places his paperboy hat on the thug’s head, to add a bit of resemblance. Finishing with attaching the flip switch to the door, he slams it shut and proceeds to repeat the process on the other side.

Nero drags over the second thug, pulling a face as he situates the man awkwardly in the passenger seat. Angelo kneels at his feet and starts rigging the fuel line on this side as well, just in case.

“You sure Strega’s not gonna notice it’s not us in the car?” Nero plugs his nose.  The corpses are beginning to smell.

Angelo slams this door shut too and stands up, gulping in clean air.

“I’m not certain of anything, but that’s why the meeting is set for sunset, it should be dark enough to leave reasonable doubt.  And when we refuse to get out of the car, Strega will be required to use force.”

“And boom,” Nero motions an explosion with his hands.

“With any luck, he’ll be taken out too,” Angelo folds his hands into his pockets.  It is already late afternoon, shadows growing long.

They head back to where their car is hidden in shrubs and trees, on a hill in eyesight of the rigged car.  Between the two of them, they smoke through a pack of cigarettes before the sun drops low enough that a wayward spark might draw attention to their hiding place.

A caravan of dark cars pulls in to the field, making their singular car look tiny and insignificant.

* * *

 

Strega orders his men to set up a floodlight, just in case Bruno or Nero tried to run.  Two of his men went missing yesterday, so he’s not really interested in letting either leave alive.

“Avilio Bruno, exit the car and deliver Nero Vanetti as promised,” Strega shouts into a bullhorn.

Nothing.

“Avilio Bruno, _exit the car and deliver Nero Vanetti_.”

Silence.

_Not trying to escape, but making no move to approach_.  Strega narrows his eyes. He motions with his head for one of his men to approach, gun at the ready.

The man slowly makes his way to the car.  He pounds on the window, “Open up!”

Between the glare from the floodlight and the encroaching night, he can barely see the men in question.

“Drag them out and bring them to me!” Strega orders through the bullhorn.

The man pulls the handle, hit immediately with the stench of decay.

“What the-” by the time opens his mouth, the spark initiated by opening the door has traveled to the fuel tank. 

It ignites.

Strega notices a moment before it happens. “GET BACK!” He barks.

He and the rest of his men dive behind their cars as the other car explodes, sending wheels and bolts spraying in all directions.  The damage seems negligible at first, flames licking up around the front of the car, then the entire vehicle bursts into flames.  A cloud of hot, angry flames ascend from the wreck of a vehicle. 

Strega watches in horror.  The man tasked with approaching the car seems to have met his untimely demise, first from the shrapnel, then from the heated wall of fire. 

“Get them out of there!” He barks, desperate to maintain control in the situation.

His men hesitate a moment before forging forward, forced to stop a few yards from the wreck.

“It’s too hot!” one yells, “we’ll never get to them!”

Strega shakes his head.  They’ll need to wait until the flames die down. 

By dawn, the fire has finally sputtered out to a weak smolder, leaving rims melted and warped, the car nothing but a warped husk of what it used to be.  Three corpses reside in the vicinity: Strega’s man outside the car, and the two inside.

Disgusted, one of Strega’s other lackeys attempts to disentangle the corpse in the driver’s seat only to have the forearm snap away from the elbow, charred soft tissue disintegrating into a dust.

“They’re really in here,” the man coughs, reporting back.

“So it was a double suicide,” Strega shakes his head.  After sending the two thugs to rough up Avilio and check his loyalty, he must have panicked and convinced Nero to die with him.  Or forced an unwitting Nero to die with him, Strega doesn’t doubt Angelo’s powers of persuasion. 

“Time to wrap up then I suppose,” Strega claps his hands, “look alive men, this was a success, the last of the Vanettis and their dogs are dead.”

* * *

 

Angelo watches the explosion reflected in Nero’s eyes, wide like twin full moons.

“Shit,” the older man mutters under his breath.

He smiles, “s’pose we’d better make our escape while they’re down there distracted.”

Nero nods and puts the car into gear, “pity, I enjoy watching them run around like chickens with their heads cut off.”

* * *

 

By dawn they’ve nearly reached the state line.  Nero likes the idea of heading up to New York.  A big city is perfect to blend in to, and the climate is more what he is used to.

But Angelo…

He wishes someone could just tell him what the right decision is. They don’t have the Galassias lording over them anymore; their entire tenuous alliance might fall to pieces.  He’s not terribly interested in killing Angelo, but he doesn’t know if he feels the same.

They take turns driving the majority of the day, eager to make distance between themselves and the Galassias.  When both begin nodding off at the wheel, they pull over in a grove of trees and rest.

“What now?” Angelo asks, once they’d woken up from a brief but much needed nap.

“We could go to New York,” Nero suggests, “it’ll be easy to start over there, far away from Lawless.”

“We?” Angelo echoes.

“Unless…you don’t want to?” He tries to prepare himself for the worst.

Angelo stares at his hands, “I don’t know…it’s not that simple for me.”

“But it could be just that simple,” he’s pleading.  He doesn’t care.

“I need a reason, Nero, I can’t…I’m not you.  I can’ just _live_ ,” His voice breaks a little.  The admission hurts more than he expected.

Nero seems lost far off in thought for a moment, “Before the playhouse, I told Barbero I would give you a reason to live.”

Angelo stares as though he wants to say something, but the words are stuck in his throat.

Impulsively, Nero takes his hand, pressed between his palms and pulls it to his chest, “let me be your reason to live.”  His eyes are wide and serious, anchoring Angelo to earth.

He allows himself to be pinned by Nero’s gaze, expression slightly open and incredulous.  

“What if that isn’t enough?” Angelo asks, feeling horrible for doing so.

“Please, let me try,” Nero begs, his eyes are full of hurt again, unspeakable grief compounded with the prospect of further loss.

Angelo feels himself nodding, “ok,” he breathes.

Nero kisses the back of the hand he holds trapped against his chest, Angelo can feel his heartbeat.  It’s exhilarating, the thought that Nero might be able to not only pull together the shards of his own tattered life but might somehow fill the void in Angelo’s hollow existence.

Before Angelo can ponder further, Nero leans over and kisses him, and Angelo, it’s becoming a reflex now, reciprocates eagerly.  The angle is awkward in the front seat of the car, and Angelo is quick to ameliorate their positions.  He breaks contact with Nero’s sweet mouth long enough to clamber onto his seat, straddling his hips as he had only weeks ago in Vincent Vanetti’s office.  Angelo is slightly taller in this position, and Nero eagerly tilts his chin up, leaving the column of his neck open for exploration by Angelo’s curious fingers.  He resumes kissing Nero, sweetness replaced by a newfound urgency. Nero’s beard scratches the sensitive skin of Angelo’s exposed throat and it ignites something in him that he wasn’t certain he needed – or even wanted – until now.

Nero has no qualms with the new pace Angelo is demanding, his hands already had begun sliding from toying with the bristly hairs of Angelo’s undercut, to tracing the knobs of his spine and the prominent spaces between his ribs, down to delineate the sharp protrusion of his hipbones, and finally stopping to grip his hips, firmly anchoring Angelo in place.  In response, Angelo squeezes his thighs tighter against Nero, causing his breath to stutter.  Nero can _feel_ Angelo smiling triumphantly into the next kiss.  Unwilling to be one-upped by such a simple gesture, Nero pulls Angelo into a series of dizzyingly intense kisses. 

Angelo breaks off with a gasp, feeling lightheaded. His heart thrums warmly in his chest and low in his stomach.  He leans in to kiss Nero again but the other man stops him.

“Back seat,” he pants, “we need to move this to the back seat.”

Angelo raises an eyebrow as what Nero is implying dawns on him.

“This is what you want too, right?” He breathes.

Instead of answering, Angelo shucks Nero of his tie in one fluid motion and begins making short work of the buttons of his vest.  Nero stalls his deft movements with a searing kiss, rolling his hips into Angelo’s. 

His pupils are blown wide as he gasps, “right, ok, back seat.”

Nero grins stupidly as Angelo practically drags him to the back seat.  He takes in his ruffled, flustered appearance and feels a stab of pleasure knowing the man he fell in love with is not completely made of stone.

Angelo pulls open the back door and slides in, lying across the seat.  Nero crawls in over top of him, knees on either side of his hips, pulling the door shut behind him. Between them, Angelo fumbles with the buttons of his pants, shoving them down.  He lifts his hips slightly, and Nero reaches down to help push the article down the rest of the length of Angelo’s legs.  He stares up at Nero, eyes brilliant and gold, uncertain but wanting. His shirt hangs open, pooling white on either side of his pale torso.  Tentative, Nero ghosts his fingertips over Angelo’s abdomen, over his chest and settling at the hollow of his throat.  The younger man shivers, head tipped back, black hair sticking out in every direction against the car seat. He slides his hand over to Angelo’s shoulder, pushing the fabric of his shirt farther off his frame.  Angelo catches on and sits up long enough for Nero to remove the offending piece of clothing. Cool hands come up to cup his jaw.

“Someone’s a little eager,” Angelo murmurs.

Belatedly, Nero realizes that he is still mostly clothed, dress shirt hanging open, while Angelo is completely bare.

“Sorry,” he nuzzles into the crook of Angelo’s neck, “you’re so beautiful, I couldn’t help myself.”

He huffs, but Nero doesn’t miss the small smile that blooms on his face.

Clever hands work their way down to Nero’s fly as he begins biting and sucking at the soft skin of Angelo’s neck. He writhes and moans under Nero’s touch, still stubbornly focused on ridding Nero of his trousers.  Nero reaches a hand back to help Angelo shove his pants away, discarded with the rest in careless piles on the car floor. Angelo’s hands roam freely over him, as though trying to memorize every pane of his body by touch alone.

Past the discarded clothing, Nero feels torn open, as though layers and layers of who he once was were being ungraciously excised, dissected down to the point of being unrecognizable.  But Angelo is below him, otherworldly and glowing, stitching back the pieces that mattered, still looking at him as though he were a masterpiece.

Nero presses a feather light kiss to the hollow of Angelo’s throat, drinking in the soft sounds of pleasure escaping his lips.

Impatient, Angelo rolls his hips upward, pressing into Nero, into the hard heat between them. Nero’s vision goes white for a moment, overwhelmed with pleasure.

“Tell me what you want,” he gasps, his forearms bracket the younger man’s head.

“All of it,” Angelo’s eyes are molten and assured, he takes one of Nero’s hands and guides it between them.

Nero returns to kissing Angelo’s lips, deep and heady, his tongue tracing over Angelo’s.  He shudders, arching into Nero’s touch, hooking his legs around Nero’s hips, pressing close, impossibly close, until they become one.

All in all, Nero has never been quite so happy to spend the afternoon in the car.

Later, Nero has the decency to pull his coat over the both of them.  Angelo’s head rests against his chest and Nero’s arms are wrapped firmly around him.  Their legs entangle at odd angles, with Nero being a bit too tall to lie comfortably across the seat. Angelo traces nonsensical patterns against Nero’s bicep, thinking that perhaps his reason to live didn’t need to be some profound revenge, it could be as small as a simple life he carved out with Nero, their car, a place to stay, and their whole lives ahead of them.  

_._

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_Epilogue_

“So then, New York?” Nero asks, shutting the car door after climbing in. He shifts in the driver’s seat, adjusting the rearview mirror.

“Sounds good to me,” Angelo shrugs, in the middle of polishing off a can of pineapples.

He puts the car into gear, “listen, if you feel uncomfortable sitting today please tell me and we can pull over to rest for a bit.”

“Nero,” Angelo says stonily, “I’ll be fine.”

“You sure you’re not uncomfortable?” He pries.

“I’m fine. You don’t need to dote on me,” Angelo fidgets in his seat until finally settling slouched in his seat, face still disgruntled.

Seeing that he’s not making much headway in this argument, Nero pulls the car out onto the road. He drums his fingers on the wheel.

“Maybe I like doting on you,” he murmurs, keeping his eyes trained on the road.

“And maybe I like it when you dote on me,” Angelo mutters.  He shoots Nero a strange look when he catches the older man simply _beaming_ at him, which is all fine and good except he’s still _driving_.

“Nero! The road!” Angelo yelps as the car begins to drift into the path of a supply truck.

Nero swerves back into his lane, cranking the wheel, swearing.

“Who’s the bad driver now,” Angelo remarks, smug.

“You wanna switch?” Nero challenges.

He groans, “just get me to New York.”

Nero laughs, eyes on the road ahead of him, the rising sun bright on the horizon.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ahh...it was a little weird finishing this fic so many months from when I first started it...hopefully the writing isn't too glaringly in-cohesive. 
> 
> hmu on Twitter: Link

**Author's Note:**

> Fangirl with me: https://twitter.com/@art_raina


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